I write to right – to consecrate; to ‘ohm’ the flame of being unto this
mortal vessel’s seven spirits. I write to be, to un-become, to teach.
I write channeled epistles to the Seven Churches (Seven Chakras),
and through music, knowledge, poetry and rhyme, and chaos,
I vibrate my blue lotus: by breathing, I create. I unwind syllables
on turntables. Like a serpent on the cross, knowledge is intertwined.
So I look up to the word to heal. Through meditations of Yoga
and photography, pornography and bleeding pens, blinking cursors and blank pages, I exhale freedom.
Using the page as a feather, I write to masturbate pent-up sensations
because wanking is making love telepathically. I imagine, I touch, I
bang the president’s wife. I fuck the girl of my dreams. I shoot cops
and free souls. I sit on the right hand of god – I judge I condemn I burn
through writing. I write to die, to transcend, and to escape from myself.
To find myself in ink blotches and become one with the immortal word.
I find my name in the book of life: semantics, phonetics and graphics.
Humour, grammar, thesis, stress, language, sound and monologue.
I write to lie because art is a social polygraph. I scribe to transcribe
tribal chants of my ancestors. Tears of a nation at war. I mourn.
I taste blood of innocence through the tip of my pen. I birth new names
to wrap around my tongue, the more I speak the truth. I write to blaspheme.
Nothing makes god angrier than the truth of a mere mortal. Therefore,
I mock the selfish god who is cozy in the fur coat of clouds with a big book
and a smoking pipe to tick our names for his judgment day barbecue and
gnashing of teeth. I again, write to embarrass science and rebuke religion.
I write for Hiphop. For dead emcees. For heartbroken poets.
For my aborted children. For mom. I just robbed you of another grandchild
because I loved selfishly. Consequently, I write to hate; to hurt. To mock pain.
To mock poetry and her aloofness to the mediocrity of transcribers who
treat writing as a joke. No wonder life laughs at their feeble acts. They forgot
the power of a written word. Words can kill. Words can heal. Words are spells.
Above all, I write to love. Love: the world needs it. So love until you lose yourself.
Nothing is as dangerous as people who don’t love themselves. They start war.
They want to drag you down to their desolate paths. Label you their insecurities. Their
hunt for laughter and friends is desperate. So they write half-truths just to belong. Just to blog.
I write bullshit to avoid them and I find life’s gifts on the other side of fear and that is
the secret of silence: the less you talk about a dream, the more you realize it.
Treat writing as a joke, it will laugh at you; steal your gift to speak the unspoken
to the universe. Write as if every letter is a whisper of god to the void. Create!